


That Nocturnal Silence

by EmynIthilien



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: An atheist in a world of gods, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Loss of Faith, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 22:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8263535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmynIthilien/pseuds/EmynIthilien
Summary: Stannis has had a long and tangled relationship with religion and those who genuinely believe in the gods.  But when all is said and done, Stannis still has faith in something…





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [originally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/gifts).



> This story was written for the 15th round of [got_exchange](http://got-exchange.livejournal.com/) on livejournal. One of originally's prompts focused various aspects of religion in the series, such as an exploration of how an atheist would view the many religions of Westeros.

“Never shall I forget those flames which consumed my faith forever. Never shall I forget that nocturnal silence….Never shall I forget those moments which murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to dust.”

Elie Wiesel, _Night_

“I stopped believing in gods the day I saw the _Windproud_ break up across the bay. Any gods so monstrous as to drown my mother and father would never have _my_ worship, I vowed. In King’s Landing, the High Septon would prattle at me of how all justice and goodness flowed from the Seven, but all I ever saw of either was made by men.”

Stannis Baratheon, _A Clash of Kings_ Davos I

 

I. The Seven

 

“Stannis!”

Stannis Baratheon hugged his knees to his chest, resting his chin on top of them.

“ _Stannis!_ ” the voice called out again, more impatient this time. “I know you’re up here, lad. I’ve searched the entire castle already, and there’s no one strolling down on the shore.”

Stannis continued to ignore the voice, focusing instead on the sound of the wind and the waves crashing on the rocks below Storm’s End. He could taste the salt in the air, and from the smell and the way the ends of his hair stuck straight out he knew that a storm was coming.

_Good._

Stannis relished that thought, looking forward to rain that felt like speeding arrows and gales that could knock the breath from a man. Whatever forces controlled the weather, they were sure to match the fury that was coursing though his blood and had been there ever since…Stannis closed his eyes and hugged his knees to him even tighter. The stone that he was sitting on was hard and cold, but that was only to be expected from the watchtower on Storm’s End’s tallest point. Shipbreaker Bay and the Narrow Sea stretched out before him, grey and dark and foaming.

“There you are. It’s best you come back inside before lightning strikes.” Stannis felt a hand on his shoulder, and he reluctantly opened his eyes and looked up into the kind—but worried—face of Maester Cressen.

“I don’t care.”

“You should care.”

“Who’s going to care if lightning strikes me dead? Robert loves Ned Stark more than me, Renly is too young to know who I even am, and mother and father are never going to see me again.”

Maester Cressen frowned sadly. “ _I_ would care very much.”

Stannis tried to jerk out of the maester’s grip. “Duty requires you to see to my welfare, nothing more. You don’t have to lie to me.”

Maester Cressen sighed, reluctantly letting go of Stannis’ shoulder. But instead of walking away, he sat down right next to Stannis, adjusting his chain. “I gain nothing from lying to you, lad. I…” he paused, considering his words. “I will always care about you, even if your lord father is no longer here to order me to do it.”

Stannis didn’t respond, choosing instead to stare straight ahead of him.

“Septon Augustyne is quite cross with you,” stated Maester Cressen.

Stannis snorted, not giving a damn about the septon and his preaching. Before escaping to the tower top, Stannis had just finished having a very enlightening conversation with the man. Oh, Septon Augustyne probably told Maester Cressen that it had been a blasphemous argument, but again, Stannis was beyond giving a damn.

“If he is, it’s his fault.”

“What in the name of the old gods and the new did you say to each other? You’re not usually one to start fights.”

 _Robert is the one to do that_ went unsaid, but Robert usually started fights because he was bored or wanted to prove that he was better at something physical. Stannis had started this _fight_ over something philosophical.

“Septon Augustyne wished me to join him for prayers in the sept. He felt that prayer would help to soothe me and to understand why the _Windproud_ sunk when and where it did. I replied that prayer wouldn’t do anything, for prayer wouldn’t bring my parents back. Shipbreaker Bay and a storm sunk the ship, and the gods didn’t do anything to stop it.”

“But the High Septon always preaches that the Seven are forces for good,” reasoned Maester Cressen.

Stannis snorted again. “There was nothing good about my parents’ deaths. And the deaths of everyone else on board the ship. I heard all the screams, maester. I’ve never heard such _agonizing_ sounds in my life. Even Robert was terrified as he stood at my side watching it all, and I’ve never known him to be frightened of anything. The Seven must be monstrous to let such a thing occur, and if you think about it, they do nothing to stop sickness, famine, and war. When I told Septon Augustyne that, he said that the gods were simply testing my faith.” His faith, his faith, his gods dammed _faith_. “If the gods are real, why do they require us to have faith in their existence? That makes no logical sense.”

Maester Cressen didn’t have a ready reply to that, but he eventually said: “Religion seeks to explain the unexplainable, and because of that many things aren’t quite logical.”

“They should be!” Stannis shot back. “If a king makes decisions that are illogical, his lords make him answer for it. But apparently if the gods do something irrational and absurd, it’s _our_ fault for not having enough faith or committing one sin or another. Tell me, what sins did Renly commit that justified the loss of his parents before he could walk?” Stannis pushed himself up and strode to the nearest parapet, digging his nails into the stone. Scattered, fat rain drops were beginning to fall.

“I no longer believe in any gods, Maester Cressen. All the goodness that I’ve seen is because of men, and if the gods really _are_ out there, they’re just as evil and corrupt as men as well. Such beings aren’t deserving of my worship.” Stannis looked down at his hands, realizing that they were shaking. The rain started to fall faster, and when Maester Cressen put his hand on his shoulder again, Stannis didn’t try and push him away. “If there are no gods, there is likely no afterlife as well.”

“You don’t know that,” came Maester Cressen’s reply.

“That’s the most logical explanation.” Stannis blinked, trying to dispel the rain that had gotten into his eyes. “I’m never going to see my parents again, and that’s what I want more than anything.”

Stannis felt himself be pulled into a tight hug as his breath became short and his whole body began to shake. Hands on his back and the back of his head steadied him. Maester Cressen stayed there as the rain truly came down in force and lightning could be seen in the distance after loud roars of thunder.

~

Stannis’ wedding ended in disaster, but it wasn’t as if it had a promising start to begin with. Before Robert proved once again his utter lack of self control, Stannis had to stand before the High Septon himself and listen to his babbling about the gods and how they always blessed the sanctity of marriage. He didn’t believe a word of it, but his wife—his wife _did_.

Selyse was a true believer in every sense of the phrase. She never missed her daily seven prayers to the Seven in the sept, and her illuminated, gilded, leather-bound copy of _The Seven Pointed Star_ was never far from her. She always encouraged Stannis to join her in her prayers, claiming that prayer would _soothe_ him and perhaps make him smile more. Stannis never did, and he never gave her a reason other than he was too busy to do such a thing. Maester Cressen had advised him to indulge her occasionally, for that might make his _duties_ as a husband more tolerable.

“I am a lord in my own right, even if Dragonstone pales in every way to Storm’s End. Selyse should be satisfied that I let her worship as she wishes and don’t interfere with her faith. No one save Robert has the power to force me into a sept.” If Stannis’ words had come off harsher than he had intended and Maester Cressen frowned at him for a week…well, so be it.

One evening meal ten years into his marriage, Stannis noticed that Shireen wasn’t with his wife for the start of it.

“Is Shireen ill, my lady?” Stannis inquired.

“Not at all, my lord.”

“Then where is she?”

“In her chambers. She said something blasphemous today, so I sent her to bed without her evening meal so she could reflect on her sins.”

Stannis frowned, scratching his chin. “She’s seven. What awful thing could she possibly have said?”

“She insulted the gods.” Stannis was tempted to laugh at that, but Selyse’s face was hard. Whatever their daughter had said had clearly affronted her, and while Stannis wasn’t above discipline when it was warranted, he was _not_ going to let Shireen suffer on account of the gods. “There is no such thing as blasphemy on Dragonstone while I am lord of this castle. You have made your views known on the matter, but I disagree.”

With that, Stannis stood up, grabbing his untouched plate of food and the loaf of black bread sitting in the middle of the table. If Selyse protested as he walked out of the room, he didn’t hear her and wouldn’t have done anything different if he had. Stannis found Shireen in her room, wrapped in a cloak and playing with wooden animals that Ser Davos had carved for her. She looked up at his entrance, and her eyes brightened when she saw the food.

“Thank you, father. My friends and I were very hungry.” Shireen placed her animals around the loaf of bread. Stannis stared at the gesture, making a mental note to find Shireen some human friends her own age. _Or perhaps I should teach her how to hawk. Hawks can make very good friends._

“What did you say to your mother?” asked Stannis as Shireen broke off part of the bread.

“I finished reading _The Seven Pointed Star_. She was very pleased with me, that I had read it all by myself.” She gave a sheepish smile. “Well, Maester Cressen helped me with many of the big words.”

“But why is she displeased with you right now?”

“I told mother that the book was just like the storybooks that Maester Cressen has found for me. Nice fantasies that have happy endings but can’t possibly be true.”

Stannis had a similar opinion about the holy book, though he had yet to share it with anyone. It simply wasn’t worth his time, and shouting it all across Westeros wouldn’t help him. Really, Stannis was rather proud of his daughter for coming to such conclusions on her own, though unfortunately she was too young to realize that her own mother was the last person she should tell them to.

“I agree with you, Shireen.”

“You do?” Shireen smiled. “Will you please tell mother that? I don’t like it when she’s angry, and I don’t like it when you and mother are angry with each other.”

Stannis wondered how much Shireen knew or could even understand about her parents’ marriage. He had never been _angry_ at his wife, not how Robert became angry at _his_ wife when he found out that she’d sold one of his favorite whores into slavery after murdering his bastard twins. But Stannis had never been particularly loving toward Selyse either, not like the lovers in the songs. He sighed, closing his eyes.

“No. Your mother and I do not believe in the same gods. No amount of discussion is going to change that.”

Shireen looked at him curiously.

“Are there gods other than the Seven?”

“There are many other religions out there, who all claim to have different gods. Northmen believe in gods found in trees, Ironborn believe in a god who lives beneath the sea, the examples can go on.”

“Which ones do you believe in, then? You must not believe in the Seven, as you never pray with mother in the sept.”

Stannis picked up a wooden stag, placing it on top of the bread. “I do not believe in the gods. When you are older, I will tell you why.” Shireen considered his response, looking up at him with sad and serious blue eyes. Stannis reached out a hand and awkwardly patted her on the head. _I should hug her, but what if she doesn’t want me to do that?_ “You are welcome to believe in whichever gods whenever you want to. Or none at all, if that is your will. And do not speak of this conversation with your mother, or anyone one else unless you trust them.”

“What about Maester Cressen and Ser Davos? Can I trust them?”

“Yes. I trust them with my life.”

~

Ser Davos Seaworth was also a devout follower of the Seven, but for some reason his faith didn’t bother Stannis as much as he thought it would. _Likely because he doesn’t preach at me and think any less of me for not making showy outward expressions of worship_. Stannis decided to ask his loyal knight about it one day, more out of curiosity than anything else.

“Why do you believe in the Seven, Ser Davos? What have they ever done for you?”

Davos simply shrugged. “The gods have watched over me and made sure that I was safe. Through their grace I was raised from a smuggler to a knight, and I have a loving wife and seven sons. I am content with my life.”

Stannis ground his teeth.

“I’m sorry that my answer displeases you, my lord.”

“You have not displeased me so far, Ser. I just disagree with you. I raised you up to be a knight for a good deed, and your _wife_ gave you seven sons. There is no way to prove that the gods had anything to do with those things.”

Davos smiled, unconcerned. “I haven’t thought too much about it, to be honest. I say prayers before going on a voyage, I watch my wife sing hymns to my sons, and I sometimes give alms to beggars in front of septs.”

“Aren’t you interested in learning the truth?” insisted Stannis. “To know if there’s any logical…”

“No, my lord,” said Davos, cutting Stannis off. “ _Let_ people have their gods, and don’t dictate what they should believe and how they should practice. The gods bring comfort, just like milk of the poppy. Neither solves your problems, but both make the pain of life more tolerable.” He reached for the little leather pouch around his neck. “Don’t worry yourself on my behalf. I’m _your_ man, no matter if the Seven come floating down from the Seven Heavens and ask me to fight for them.”

Hearing that answer soothed Stannis more than any prayer ever had.

 

   
II. R’hllor

 

Though Stannis would never admit it aloud, he was glad that Ser Davos had managed to smuggle Edric Storm from Dragonstone before he let Melisandre burn him alive. Yes, his loyal knight had committed treason behind his back, but that treason prevented Stannis from turning into a man he thought he’d never become: a follower of a monstrous god.

Melisandre had arrived on Dragonstone just when news of Robert’s death had reached the island, and the news of Ned Stark’s beheading would arrive soon after. Everything about her was red, from her lips to her hair to her silk robes to the god she professed was the old true god. Stannis would’ve expelled her straight away, but his wife insisted that he extend guest right for a time to the priestess. Stannis let his wife have her way, and then Melisandre suddenly had _her_ way with his wife.

In no time at all Selyse had renounced the Seven and had taken R’hllor as her god. She hung on to Melisandre’s every word and accompanied her to daily prayers said around magnificent fires. Stannis ignored the women, but they didn’t want to ignore him. Melisandre was convinced that he was Azor Ahai reborn, the most preposterous idea that Stannis had ever heard in his life. But she believed in his claim to the Iron Throne and had advice on how he should go about winning what was his by rights—advice on par or better than that of his useless lords. While Stannis never personally believed in her god or sent prayers to the thing, he had to admit that Melisandre had power. Melisandre inspired fear, and fear was the biggest weapon Stannis had at his disposal. She made grown men tremble, made women fall hysterically at her feet. She was useful, and Stannis would use her and put up with her preaching until she wasn’t.

Still, Stannis wasn’t deaf to all the mutterings about Melisandre and the hold she supposedly held on him. Especially since Maester Cressen’s death.

 _I’m not the first king to use religion to my advantage. It’s a political tool that can control people just as much as an army. It’s not like I’m going to force men to give up their gods or burn people at the stake for refusing to believe in R’hllor_. Ser Davos still clung to the Seven, and Stannis wasn’t in any hurry to get rid of his new Lord Hand.

Melisandre saw things in her flames. The _future_ , she steadfastly claimed. She saw Renly’s death, saw Storm’s End fall to him, saw the death of the other three false kings. Yet it took Stannis time to realize that she was actually _causing_ those deaths, and he was terrified to think that he had a part in them. Nightmares plagued him after Renly’s death, but he brushed those aside. Renly was a traitor, his death was inevitable. The same thing with Ser Cortnay Penrose, who died while steadfastly serving a traitor. But the more he thought of those deaths, the more time he spent listening to Melisandre’s whispers and her praises, the more he realized that she was using him more than he was using her.

So when Ser Davos confessed to spiriting away Edric Storm, Stannis was secretly grateful. He would not let Melisandre make him a kinslayer, and he would not give in to demands of a monstrous god who deserved his worship as much as the Seven did.

 

   
III. The Old Gods

 

The old gods were silent gods.

At least according to Jon Snow, the stubborn boy commander of the Night’s Watch who frustrated Stannis to no end. Snow looked like Ned Stark come back from the dead, and he even had Stark’s bloody honor to go along with his long and serious face. He refused Stannis’ generous offer to become the Lord of Winterfell, but he shared many of Stannis’ ideas about the future of the Wall and how to carry out justice. Like a good Northman, Snow put his faith in gods found in trees, though he wasn’t one to preach. He frowned at Melisandre and her nightfires, and he clearly disapproved of her methods to attract followers to R’hllor.

Stannis was puzzled at the concept of the old gods. They had no specific form like the seven gods of the Seven, no holy books, and no holy men. What exactly _did_ all those Northmen and wildlings pray to? What were their gods supposed to even _do_? Perform miracles, watch over people, delight in blood? All Stannis could glean from Snow was that godswoods were important and shouldn’t be trifled with.

“When you take Winterfell back from the Boltons, be sure to visit the godswood,” said Snow before Stannis marched away from the Wall to rally the northern mountain clans.

“March with me and do that yourself.”

A flash of longing shot through Snow’s eyes, but it was gone before Stannis could blink. “I am the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. It is not my place to meddle in the affairs of the realm.”

 _Say that all you want to, Snow, but you want the Boltons dead even more than me. You should be fighting for your father’s castle, and from what I know of Northmen your father’s men will follow you._ “As you will.”

“Please don’t destroy it. Lady Melisandre wanted to do just that when you offered to make me Lord of Winterfell. The trees are the heart of Winterfell, the heart tree especially. The northern lords would take grave insult.”

“As would you?” Stannis’ mouth twisted. “When have your gods ever answered your prayers?”

Snow looked away from him for a long time before replying, and Stannis wondered what thoughts were going through his mind. _The gruesome deaths of all his family members save for Lady Sansa Lannister?_ “The Starks have worshiped the old gods for thousands of years. My father would often go to the godswood to pray and find peace, and he taught my brother Robb and I to do the same.”

That wasn’t a direct answer, but Stannis understood where Snow was coming from. The old gods were associated with the Starks, whose name he so desperately wanted as his own. They also connected him with his family and times when life was simpler and happier. Stannis had no such memories of visiting septs or worshiping the Seven with his parents, and he wondered if he would’ve given up his faith so easily if he had.

“Do you find peace, in your godswoods?”

Snow smiled, one of the first smiles Stannis had ever seen from him. “Yes. I think you would too, Your Grace.”

~

Taking Winterfell from the Boltons was a bloody affair, even with all of the noble families of the North behind him. The Manderlys led the Frey army to frozen lakes where they predictably drowned, and the nobles inside Winterfell turned on the Boltons when Stannis had the castle surrounded. He was given the honor of executing Roose and Ramsay Bolton for their treasons—in the castle’s godswood in front of the heart tree, red sap dripping down from the garish face. Stannis wondered what it said about the old gods, for many of the lords didn’t leave the place until the Boltons’ blood had drained from their bodies, feeding the roots of the mighty weirwood.

Days after the executions, when Stannis dearly wanted to strangle everyone wanting to give him advice on where and when to march his army, he made another visit to the godswood. He bade his guards to wait at the gates and to make sure no one disturbed him. The forest was deadly silent, and the heavy layer of snow on the ground muffled the sound of everything but the wind. The place was beautiful, in a way, and the blood-red leaves of the weirwood were a stark contrast to everything else. Stannis found an old log by the weirwood, brushed the ice from it, and sat down. After a time he closed his eyes and listened to the silence.

Stannis only left when dark had fallen and the cold started to bother him more than usual. Whether he had found the same kind of peace that Snow and Stark before him had found in the place was up for debate. But Stannis did know that his head was clearer, such as those times when he would fill his head with the sound of the waves crashing below Storm’s End.

~

Having won the North by battle, Stannis decided to turn back to the Wall and continue to defend the realm. Ser Davos had smuggled Rickon Stark and his direwolf back from who knew where, appeasing the worshipers of precious Ned Stark. Now that winter had come and a trueborn Stark restored, stopping the enemy that wanted to destroy them all was of utmost importance. As well, Stannis had to see for himself what exactly had occurred there, as Winterfell had received a slew of ravens carrying disturbing and conflicting information.

Selyse had written to him, telling him of the mutiny against and the death of Jon Snow. She also believed _him_ to be dead as well, but she didn’t want to lose faith in Melisandre’s prophecies of Azor Ahai saving Westeros with a flaming sword. The rest of her words were all about the goodness and the power of the one true god, and they came off as equally proud and hysterical.

Jon Snow had also written to him, in his own hand no less, proving to Stannis that the boy wasn’t dead like Selyse claimed. A _treasonous fight_ had occurred at the Wall, Snow claimed, and the traitors had been justly punished. As ever, the Wall need more support against the White Walkers, who were now being sighted on a regular basis. No mention of any kind of god was to be found in Snow’s words, and because of that Stannis decided that Snow was telling him the truth.

   
IV. Gods Made by Men

 

Jon Snow sat next to one of the broken catapults on top of the Wall, knees drawn up to his chest and eyes staring at some indeterminate point north. His dark hair was just barely beginning to grow back after having been singed away by his own _funeral_ pyre of all things. The white direwolf was faithfully curled up beside him.

Stannis cleared his throat. “Lord Snow. I was told that I would find you up here.”

Snow jumped up and whirled around, badly startled. His swordhand was halfway to the pommel of his deadly Valyrian steel weapon before he realized who had disturbed him. Upon seeing Stannis, Snow straightened up and gave a formal bow.

“Your Grace. I wasn’t expecting you.”

Stannis clasped his hands behind his back, walking forward until he stood as close to Snow as propriety allowed. The direwolf, with eyes as red as the heart tree of Winterfell, looked at him silently but made no move to bare his teeth or to attack.

“I hear from your men that you’re a god. You bled out on the ice only to be reborn in fire. How much of that is true?”

“That was to be my question to you, Your Grace,” replied Snow.

“Was it?”

“The Wall received news of your death in a seven day long, icy battle. But then Azor Ahai returned with his flaming sword and beheaded Roose Bolton and Ramsay Snow, his loyal men restoring Eddard Stark’s last trueborn son as the Lord of Winterfell.”

Stannis answered with a wry twist of his mouth. He felt less a god now than at any other time in his life, for prepare as he might, he had little knowledge about the evils that lurked beyond the Wall while men froze to death on a daily basis. The words that men whispered behind his back were even more absurd and reverent than those that Melisandre preached around her nightfires, though they were nothing compared to what was being said about Snow. No one could decide if he was a wolf, wight, or White Walker. All of Snow’s commands were implicitly followed, whether from respect or fear Stannis couldn’t tell. But he did know that no one had the courage to meet his eyes while speaking to him, just like they did with him.

“Did you die?”

“I don’t know.”

Snow seemed to realize that was a poor answer. He frowned, biting his lip as he thought. “I was stabbed by my men, four times given the scars that I have.” He rubbed at his neck, and Stannis noticed a silver line that surely had not been there before. “But instead of blackness or some wonderful paradise, I was seeing everything from my direwolf’s eyes. I knew that I must be going mad, and I can’t tell you how many men lost their lives as Ghost— _I_ —tried to get back to my body. The wildling woman Val restrained Ghost as my body was put on a pyre, and then I suddenly saw through my own eyes again and walked out of it, all of my wounds miraculously healed.”

Stannis pondered Snow’s answer. Snow talked of fantastical things, but they were nothing in light of all the others that had happened recently. Snow seemed to be hinting at the idea of a soul, for how else could he see through the eyes of his wolf? But was that soul immortal like the septons always preached?

“No blackness or wonderful paradise?” wondered Stannis. “Are you sure you weren’t in one of the seven hells?”

Snow tilted his head back and closed his eyes, deep in thought. Eventually, he let out a long breath. “If there’s a life after this one I never saw it.”

 _I was right. There really is no afterlife. I’ll never see my parents again, just like I thought_. Stannis couldn’t suppress a small feeling of satisfaction, though his thoughts brought him no comfort.

Snow wasn’t done speaking, and his whole body was shaking. “There was so much blood. How my body is still alive…The scars I have don’t really do justice to all of it.” He placed a hand on his direwolf’s head to steady himself. Snow barely seemed to be holding himself together, and Stannis got the feeling that Snow hadn’t dared to let his guard down like this since his stabbing. Stannis was swiftly reminded of another young man trying to make sense of a horrendous event a long time ago.

“The scars that you can readily see might have healed, but sometimes the scars inside of us never do.”

Snow opened his eyes at Stannis words, meeting his eyes. Stannis held his gaze, not simply because a king and Lord Commander were as close to equals as one could get.

“I’m done with gods. I wish my father were still alive so I could ask him how he still kept faith despite all the tragedies that he suffered.” Snow shook his head, muttering. “I don’t know why I’m telling all of this to you. For all I know you’ll tell Lady Melisandre what a godforsaken heathen I am.”

Stannis crossed his arms in front of him. “Do you really take me for one of Lady Melisandre’s religious fanatics?” Snow’s eyes widened, surprised at what Stannis had said. _Just like Maester Cressen, Shireen, and Ser Davos_. “I haven’t believed in gods for a very long time, and I haven’t experienced anything in my life that’s convinced me to change my opinion. If you’re still alive, I doubt it has to do with the grace of any god. You were just too stubborn to die.”

Snow gave a harsh laugh, tracing the thin white scar on his neck again with a gloved finger

“Do you believe in anything, then, Your Grace? After all you’ve seen, after all you’ve experienced?”

Stannis considered Snow’s question. No one had ever asked him such a thing, and for so long he had been so adamant about the nonexistence of any god that he encountered. Snow’s tone of voice was as light as he could make it, but Stannis got the impression that his answer was very important. The wind was blowing hard, its cold biting though layers of wool, fur, and leather. No other sounds could be heard this high up on the Wall, apart from their own voices. Stannis reached out a hand and firmly placed it on Snow’s shoulder.

“I believe in men, Lord Snow. I have faith in men who always do their duty and try their hardest to bring justice to the realm. Men like my father Lord Steffon Baratheon, the maester who raised me like the son he never had, and your father Lord Eddard Stark. Men like us.”

Snow didn’t try and shake out of the grasp, and he seemed to be leaning into it ever so slightly.

“Let them think that we’re gods. It won’t be any more harmful than all the other deities out there.”

“So _you_ don’t think that I’m a god? Or a wolf, wight, or White Walker?”

“First of all, if you were truly a god you wouldn’t bother to call me _Your Grace_. Most of those fools down below would know that the latter two aren’t true if they bothered to check that your eyes are grey instead of blue. But I think it’s safe to say that you’ve always been a wolf—you’re still Ned Stark’s son, after all.”

Snow seemed calmed by that, and Stannis could feel that he wasn’t shaking as badly as before. The two of them stood together at the top of the Wall for a long time, until a loud blast of a horn brought them back to their senses.

“Join me in my chambers for the evening meal,” said Stannis. “I can’t promise you the silence of your godswoods, but I can promise that no one else will disturb us. We can talk about whatever you want or nothing at all.”

Snow’s eyebrows rose slightly, as if he didn’t quite know how to respond to the offer. He looked down at his direwolf, who padded around to Stannis’ side and gave one of his hands a lick.

“I would like that very much.”

END  


**Author's Note:**

> 1\. _Night_ is a famous Holocaust memoir by Nobel Peace Prize winner Elie Wiesel. It’s a wonderfully written and moving work, and I chose the quote at the beginning of this story because of its parallels to Stannis’ confession on why he doesn’t believe in gods. Stannis’ atheism is an integral part of his character—just as honor is to Ned Stark—fueling his seemingly ingrained cynicism and skepticism. He’s a classic example of a man who witnesses something horrific and thus loses his faith, and he isn’t the first to the grapple with the question of: “How could a good and just god allow such awful things to happen?”
> 
> And on that note: Why oh why did the HBO show make Stannis a religious fanatic and Davos an atheist? Did those characterizations simply make it easier for Stannis to come off as a villain on the same level as Roose Bolton and Ramsay Snow? Now, it’s debatable what _exactly_ Stannis thinks of Melisandre and what he might do in the future. He certainly knows that she has power and wants to exploit it, but that isn’t the same thing as a fanatic who burns people alive simply for believing in the “wrong” god.
> 
> 2\. Septon Augustyne’s name is inspired by the famous Saint Augustine. I had to read Saint Augustine’s _Confessions_ during school, and regardless of my own opinions on the work, I’ll just say that Stannis would likely despise it.


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